


Coming Home

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's body is heavy and unmoving in slumber, always stomach-down, always with his head turned to the right so the first thing Rodney sees is the soft, welcoming glisten of John's mouth</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Home

Sometimes, Rodney comes back from a long, hard day at the labs and finds John already in bed, asleep. It's not that John can't -- or won't -- stay awake for him. He would, no matter how the white would deepen around his eyes, breath coming out raspy so not to let it inadvertently go slow and even. It's flattering, since Rodney's _fairly_ certain that his suffering is a sign of John actually caring.

It might not be. John clings to suffering the way children cling to sweets.

But finally, after weeks of dancing around the subject, Rodney's convinced John that he doesn't mind. In fact, likes it, because when John sleeps in Rodney's bed, he _sleeps_. The edge of awareness, hovering like a razor the rest of the time, is gone. John's body is heavy and unmoving in slumber, always stomach-down, always with his head turned to the right so the first thing Rodney sees is the soft, welcoming glisten of John's mouth.

Rodney pads forward slowly, careful not to wake John up. He wants him to stay asleep for this, letting Rodney run a thumb over the lush fullness of his lower lip, creating a _v_ where Rodney pulls it slightly distended. Then he does the same to the upper lip, where stubble slowly (not so slowly) grows along the edge. It always comes there first, for some reason, and Rodney relishes the contrast of textures.

There's something disturbing, maybe even depraved, about this. John isn't _here_ , isn't willingly participating. Except he is, in a way, just by nature of sleeping so deeply. Rodney has no illusions about how trustworthy he is, when it comes to his own desires. John has to _know_ , by now, just how much Rodney wants it. So if he's really sleeping here, completely gone as Rodney's thumb squeaks against his teeth...

That's not rationalizing, right? It _sounds_ like rationalizing, sure, but John is different, studied and careful about his physical edges, unwilling to engage in the stupid trust exercises Rodney's spent years of his working life avoiding. John's never been able to let himself fall, not without millions of dollars of equipment all around him.

Except here, maybe. Except now, when he's so fast asleep that he doesn't even twitch when Rodney's zipper is unexpectedly loud. He doesn't crack his eyes open and glare, doesn't bite down when Rodney let's the curve of his cock brush against those soft, soft lips.

He just sleeps.

Rodney's breath rattles too loud in his chest, but John doesn't seem to mind. There's something _wrong_ about this, a slick line of filth hovering in the corners of his mind, but he can't help it. He pushes, rolling his hips, and John's mouth opens wider -- still so soft, so _soft_ \-- letting Rodney in.

He's fucking John's face. Shallow, at first, jerking back and forth because there's no way he can be smooth, can use the finesse he's worked so hard to learn. Just back and forth, rubbing against John's still tongue, his teeth, the pillowy pocket of the cheek Rodney bumps into. He won't go straight back, doesn't want to choke John, since that would completely defeat the purpose, but oh he _wants_ to, thighs shivering at the thought of it, gripping himself more tightly to make certain he doesn't.

John makes a low, sleepy sound and Rodney freezes. He really _doesn't_ want to choke John, or hurt him, or, more pertinently, be hurt _by_ him. Those teeth aren't being covered the way John usually does, when he's conscious, and Rodney can feel the sharp power of them with every thrust.

Another sound, a long, cleansing sigh through John's nose, and then -- Rodney gulps, frantically locking his knees, because god, John's _sucking_. It's almost child-like, the instinctive habit from so long ago, because there's no intent, no long, powerful pulls that means John's into this, too. Just the steady, rhythmic, tension and release, almost unnoticeable, with his tongue moving so that Rodney's angled a bit better, a bit deeper into John's mouth.

He bites his lip until he bleeds, the only way he can stop the string of _oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god_ that wants to come out.

Rodney forces his eyes open. He wants to see, to study the way John's lips get fuller, pink in the half-light from outside, stretching around him like he doesn't even mind, like he's enjoying the way Rodney slides in an out. Like maybe he even likes it, splayed out on his belly, sleep erasing the heavy weight of command from his features, leaving him years younger.

It's beautiful -- _he's_ beautiful -- and Rodney can't help but start to move faster.

He's hissing through his teeth, fist tight and frantic around the base of his dick, because he won't push all the way in. Can't, no matter how inviting John's mouth is, how accepting it feels, because there are certain things Rodney never wants to do, and hurt John is somewhere near the top of the list. He just wants -- just _needs_ more, a little more, letting his fingers brush up against John's mouth, against those damnably inviting lips, and oh, god, John's sucking harder now, making soft, eager noises as he cranes his neck a little -- still sleeping, Christ, still _sleeping_ \-- finding a better angle and oh, oh, _oh._

John swallows.

Shaky and disbelieving, Rodney eases himself free, reaching out to wipe a single trail that glistens on John's skin. The stubble rasps loudly and he gulps, just as loud, at how good it sounds. Maybe, later, when John's awake he'll rub up against his face, coasting along that scrape that's so close to outright pain, but isn't, now with John's face upturned and looking at his and...

But that's later.

For now, he strips off his clothes and collapses on the other side of the bed, nosing into the pillow even as he slings an arm around John's waist, pulling him flush.

He doesn't see the way John's eyes gleam in the light, his damp mouth curving into a grin.

He doesn't need to.


End file.
